


Absence

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU in which Lockdown short doesn't exist, Eternal Beings, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), because this comes before it and would change it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder; in Aziraphale's case, it just makes the heart worried.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 79





	Absence

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small one because it's been a while. I mean... a week, but for me that's a while. Enjoy!

A week isn’t such a long time, in the grand scheme of things. Aziraphale has certainly gone for longer without seeing Crowley before; he has gone _centuries_ without seeing him. But that was before.

Since the world almost ended, Crowley has been a near-constant presence in the bookshop, lounging on any vaguely flat surface, slithering through shadows, rearranging books and tossing sarcastic comments at any customer that dares disturb their comfortable little sanctuary. Barely a day has gone by without Crowley pulling up outside in that beautiful deathtrap of his, idly remarking on the availability of a table at a nearby restaurant or proffering tickets to the theatre.

And now, it has been a week, a week of Aziraphale standing at the window and gazing worriedly into the crowds, and Crowley isn’t here.

Aziraphale has spent enough time wondering, and enough time waiting. It’s time to act, to go and find his demon and bring him home. He’s wasted so long already - and what if something terrible has happened? What if Crowley hasn’t come because he _can’t_ come? What if he is, even now, waiting for Aziraphale to sweep in and rescue him? Aziraphale should have sought him out days ago, but he’s been afraid. Not of Heaven or Hell - they’ve faced them before, after all, and come away victorious - but of Crowley’s reaction. What if Crowley hasn’t come because he doesn’t _want_ to come? What if he is, even now, reveling in his freedom from the fussy angel he’s been stuck with all this time?

Aziraphale has never been to Crowley’s flat, with the notable exception of a single night, and that had been under the most dire of circumstances. He had hardly been taking in the details; nor had Crowley invited him entirely freely. Crowley has _never_ asked him to visit there, in fact, and Aziraphale has never dropped by on some flimsy pretext or other. He knows where it is, of course; Crowley has been diligent, in the years since they formed their Arrangement, in letting Aziraphale know where he is. Aziraphale has been equally diligent in avoiding the area, lest Heaven realise he has let a demon’s lair go unchallenged. It has worked, all these years, and they’ve been safer for it.

Now, Aziraphale takes a scarf he doesn’t remember buying from its hook in the bookshop, wraps it around his neck, and sets out for Mayfair. He allows his innate sense of Crowley - his innate sense of _love,_ which always includes Crowley - to guide him along unfamiliar streets until he reaches a block of flats so grand and imposing that he would know it to be Crowley’s even without the demonic energy concentrated at the top.

He rides up in the lift until he reaches the correct floor, takes three steps and hesitates at the front door. If Crowley doesn’t want him here, if his absence is deliberate, if he is tired of Aziraphale’s company… He pushes the dreadful thought away and knocks firmly, the sound echoing off of the cool tile of the atrium.

On the other side of the door, Aziraphale hears footsteps. Crowley is mobile, then, not sick or dead or restrained. He is coming to the door, and Aziraphale feels as though he is intruding, as if he should leave. This is Crowley’s sanctuary, after all, and-

“Angel?”

The demon himself is standing in the doorway, looking puzzled.

“Ah, Crowley, I- I don’t mean to intrude.”

“No, it’s- you don’t come here, why are you here?”

“I do apologise. I was simply worried about you, and now I see you’re all right.”

“Worried about me?” Crowley glances down at his watch, and Aziraphale catches a glimpse of his eyes behind his sunglasses. The golden-yellow of his irises is spreading through his sclera in a way that Aziraphale has only ever seen when Crowley is experiencing strong emotions; he hates the thought that he himself might be causing his friend distress.

“Well, my dear, it’s just that I haven’t seen you since Wednesday. Not that you have to come around every day, but-”

“‘S still Wednesday,” Crowley points out, with a glance at his watch as if to check. “I was going to come back tomorrow-”

“It’s been a week, Crowley.” Aziraphale frowns. “Oh, dear - has one of us had a mishap with time again?”

“It’s- no-” Crowley examines his watch more closely. “Oh, no. It’s next Wednesday. I’ve been- I’m sorry, angel, I must’ve lost track of time.”

“Lost track of-?” That’s impressive, even for Crowley. “For a week? What on earth have you been doing?”

“Clicked ‘random article’ on Wikipedia, and it spiralled,” Crowley admits sheepishly, and then, at Aziraphale’s look of incomprehension, “don’t ask, angel, you wouldn’t approve.”

“It sounds rather as if you’ve been reading an encyclopedia,” Aziraphale reasoned, “in which case I certainly do approve. But you’re all right; that’s what matters. I’ll leave you to your reading-”

“Wait.”

Aziraphale stalls, halfway through a polite step backwards towards the lift, as Crowley takes his own step backwards and holds the door open.

“You can come in, if you like. Stay a while. I’ve missed you.”

“You didn’t even realise how long it had been,” Aziraphale chides him lightly, and Crowley turns his face away.

“I always miss you when we’re apart. Doesn’t have to be more than a few minutes.” His cheeks are flaming, but he holds his ground, door wide open, and Aziraphale considers his response carefully before stepping over the threshold and into Crowley’s home.

“Entirely mutual, my dear boy. Entirely mutual.” He waits for Crowley to turn back towards him, to make sure the message is received, and then he turns his own attention to his new surroundings. “Now, I don’t suppose I could trouble you for the grand tour?”

There will be time enough to discuss _I always miss you;_ there will be time enough to explain that Aziraphale’s sense of Crowley is entirely bound up in his sense of love. There will be time enough for all the things that have gone unsaid for so many years, because Crowley has always been comfortable with superficial changes but steadfast in his devotion to Aziraphale. _You go too fast for me,_ Aziraphale had told him only half a century ago; he will not charge in and turn Crowley’s world around before the demon is ready.

“...and these are my plants,” Crowley continues, halfway through a speech Aziraphale has barely registered as he trails in his wake from room to room, “best plants in London, if they know what’s good for them-”

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale tells him, as if they’re discussing soil quality, and he’s hardly aware that the words are on the tip of his tongue before they’re spoken. The sentence hangs in the air, irreversible, and Crowley stalls.

“Y- I- Th-” He stops altogether for a moment, staring helplessly from Aziraphale to a particularly luxuriant rubber plant and back again. “What?”

“I love you,” Aziraphale repeats, “I just thought you should know. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Ngk.” There’s a very long pause; Aziraphale is sure he can hear Crowley’s brain creaking, like a tree in a strong wind. “Mind?”

Then, all at once, Crowley is very close, and for a moment Aziraphale thinks that he really has changed the rules on the unfortunate demon too quickly. But Crowley isn’t angry; he isn’t even scared, Aziraphale realises as the ever-present sunglasses are folded and tucked away into a pocket.

“I’m not going too fast?” Crowley whispers, as he raises a hand to within an inch of cupping Aziraphale’s cheek, and Aziraphale nuzzles into his palm like a pampered housecat.

“Not at all, my dear.”

And there, in Crowley’s home, they share the first of what will turn out to be many, many kisses.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to let you know, I might not be posting as much for a little while. I've started a new and very labour-intensive AU (coming soonish?) and, like Crowley in this fic, I've fallen right down the rabbit hole. After that I have another AU to write for the go-events event, so that will probably also cut down on my one-shots. But I'll try to keep putting things up here and there!


End file.
